Encounters with Rangers
by Infinitys-End
Summary: Some days are more exciting than others. A series of short stories, mildly related to one another.
1. An Encounter with Rangers

Disclaimer:  I do not own Tokien, or any of his works.  All recognizable characters and locals are used with greatest respect, and returned without great harm done.  

An Encounter with Rangers

The sky was a pale blue at that early hour of the morning, with just a few wispy clouds marring the great expanse.  Mary Thistlewood, the eldest daughter of old Tom Thistlewood the dairyman, trudged down the road through town, headed toward the family pastures just outside the city walls.  A wooden yoke with two empty buckets attached, one at each end, hangs over her shoulders.  Today it was her job to milk the family's small herd.  She was not put out by this task, as it gave her a chance to stretch her legs and take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather Bree-land had been having these last few weeks.  The local farmers, who at first had been pleased about the extra time they had to harvest their crops, now grumbled about the lack of rain, predicting poor crops for next year.  Mary did not mind too much, since her older brothers had packed the hay barn full this year, so the cows were in little danger of starving.  This nice October weather was a pleasant alternative to the usual driving rain that moved in during the late fall and winter months.  

As she passed the West Gate, she nodded to the gatekeeper who stood watching people come and go.  He nodded back, his face calmly inscrutable as always.  She did not pause to chat, as she had to finish her chore as soon as possible so her father could send the milk 'round to their customers.  She had to resist the urge to begin skipping as she slipped past the massive gate.  Glorying in the warm sunshine, she looped sun-browned arms over the ends of her yoke.  From here, she could just see the riot of color that was the Chetwood, which contrasted with the browning fields all around.  As she walked along the causeway, she had to be careful of her balance, and was almost tipped into the dike by an erratically driven cart.  As the cart passed, she scowled at the young lad holding the reins.   It was one of Bob Heathertoes' boys, being as irresponsible as ever.  She sighed and shook her head.  Some things never change.  Like her mother's parting comment as she started on her journey – "Be careful on the Road, Mary, and don't talk to any of those rangers!"

As if she would.  Rangers were dangerous. Everyone knew that.  However… she paused in her thoughts, a thrill of guilty pleasure shivering up her spine.  Those rangers were rather mysterious, and handsome as well, if one looked past all of the muck and filth.  Not that she would ever talk to them, despite the illicit attraction.  It was rumored that the rangers would kidnap innocent young lasses for their own pleasure.  There were even tales of rangers eating unsuspecting villagers.  However, only the most foolish believed these wild stories.  The rangers were just rangers.  One did not make friends with them, but they did no harm either.  What they did out in the wild was their own business, though Mary could not see why they wandered instead of settling down like honest folk.  They were obviously well educated, for they could be counted on for a good tale if they were in the right mood.  The best Billy, the lad in town who fancied her, could do was the drink-inspired limerick he had serenaded her with the other night.  She frowned in an attempt to remember the exact words… something about eyes as brown as old leather, and a fondness for cows.  Perhaps it is a good thing that she does not fancy Billy in return.  As if she would be flattered after being compared to a boot!  As Mary carefully avoided turning a heel on the rutted road, she realized she had wandered away from her original topic of musing.  Before she could attempt to reconcile the rare glimpses of lore with the image the rangers projected, the lowing of her father's cows interrupted her thoughts.  The sturdy brown and white beasts were standing at the gate, their heads hung over the wooden railings as they waited impatiently for milking.

"Ho there Buttercup, get away now Daisy, let me in." she cajoled the large animals, and more convincingly poked each until they cleared enough space for her to squeeze through the gate.  With the cows urging her along, she hurried to the small lean-to nearby, setting down her buckets and grabbing the halter from it's hook on the wall.   Daisy butted forward first, loudly expressing her dissatisfaction with the lateness of the milking and with life in general.  Daisy was the oldest of her family's cows, and was the first her father had raised from a calf.  Because of her father's doting attention, Daisy had become a very bossy, and very large, cow.  Thus, it was always a good idea to cater to Daisy's moods.  Quickly she tied Daisy to the holding rail and set up her stool.  As the milk squirted out into the timeworn bucket, she became lost in her musings again.  

There's no accounting for East and West, said the town elders whenever they got together for a good talk.  The east and west, of course, meant the Shire-folk and the rangers.  Mary giggled at the thought of dangerous Shire-folk roaming the wilds like the rangers.  The only thing the Little People seemed a danger to was the local mushroom population.  Idly she wondered what it was the rangers actually did out in the wild.  Did they just wander about until they ran out of food, then meandered back into town again, looking as disreputable as ever?  If that was so, why did they need to be so heavily armed?  The last ranger she had seen had been wearing a great sword, one that looked almost as long as her leg, and nearly as wide.  What could a body need with such a big weapon?  There had not been any trouble around here since the Fell Winter of 2911, and that had been long before she was born.  Perhaps they wore those swords to chop wood.  But then, wouldn't a simple axe be easier to carry, and easier to use?  Before she can think up other uses for such awkwardly long swords, Daisy interrupted her, swatting her face with a long tail.  Mary started, and realized that she had been so lost in her thoughts that she had stopped milking.  

"Sorry old girl." Mary muttered to the temperamental cow, and began work once more.  As she worked, she quickly lost interest in milking, and looked out over the surrounding countryside for something to amuse her while she worked.  Suddenly, she gasped and pulled a little closer to Daisy.  There was a ranger coming towards Bree!  Surreptitiously she peeked around Daisy's broad hindquarters to spy on the mysterious figure.  This ranger she did not recognize, but that did not mean much.  The only ranger she knew by sight was one of the younger ones, and that was because she had accidentally spilt an entire bucket of milk all over him a few years back.  She blushed fiercely in remembrance.  She had only been ten at the time, and had been over-eager to help her father with the chores.  That day, she had been too busy trying to keep the milk from sloshing in the bucket to look where she was going, and thus had tripped.  Because of that adventure, she had hid inside the house for days afterward; convinced the rangers were going to come after her.  Of course, they never did, but she still hid whenever she saw that particular ranger.  This one coming towards her was older and more weathered, like an old oak tree.  He carried another one of those huge swords the rangers were so fond of, as well as a quiver and bow.  His clothing was like any other rangers – dark and rough, with only a silver star pinning his cloak for ornamentation.  

Mary sighed in relief.  As the ranger drew nearer, he showed little interest in her or her family's field.  Perhaps he had not seen her.  He strode along with a determined air, as if he was late for something.  Where could a ranger need to get in such a hurry?  They were just wanderers, after all.  He seemed to take little interest in the fine weather, or in the little birds singing their last songs before migrating away for the winter.  This confused Mary.  What could he possibly do, wandering about in the wild, if he did not have an appreciation of his surroundings?  To wander just for the sake of wandering sounded terribly dull to her.  The ranger walked past her little hut, and she rose from her stool to get a better look at him as he continued up the road.  At this point, unnoticed by Mary, Daisy had lost all patience with her incompetent milker.  Bellowing in rage, the cow lashed out at the preoccupied girl, catching her in the chest with one heavy cloven hoof.  Mary yelped, and before she could get her balance back fell, knocking her head on the hard ground with a crack.  Bright stars flashed before her eyes, and then the world went dark.

"Honestly Ara… Strider, I did nothing!  I did not even know she was there, until the cow kicked her." A deep voice protested, cutting through the darkness.  There was a low chuckle in return.  

"Did not know she was there?  That was not very observant of you, Mouse." A second voice replied sounding very amused.

"I wish you would refrain from using that name." The first voice replied grumpily.  "Why they persist in calling me that, I will never know.  Why couldn't they have given me a more dignified nickname?" 

"Dignified?  Do you think Strider is dignified?" The second retorted dryly.  Mary winced as a hand gently ran along the back of her head.  "Ah, she awakes.  Can you hear me, miss?  Open your eyes, and tell Mouse here that he can stop fretting."  The first voice muttered something about how he was not fretting and to stop calling him Mouse, but Mary paid it no mind, instead concentrating on opening her eyes.  

The sight that greeted her shocked her so thoroughly she nearly fainted again.  There, crouched on either side of her, were two rangers.  Neither looked particularly threatening, other than the obvious weaponry they wore and their habitually grim expressions, but Mary felt cowed nonetheless.  She could just see Daisy contentedly grazing if she looked over the shoulder of the ranger on her right, and the rest of the herd was scattered around the field.  The ranger on her left spoke, and Mary realized this ranger was the second voice.

"How do you feel, miss?  That was quite a tumble you took, at least it was if Mouse was telling the truth." He asked, looking concerned.  The ranger on her other side, whom she supposed was Mouse, gave the other a vicious glare.  

"Strider, would you please stop that?  Call me any other name besides that." He growled, disdain in his voice.  Mary felt the strong desire to sink into the earth and disappear, anything to get away from the grumpy ranger.  

"Your other names are less flattering.  Besides, I feel the need to gain some compensation for your late return.  You were supposed to be here last night, not this morning." The other, whom Mary supposed was Strider, replied. He did not seem put out by Mouse's protests.  Mary decided to break in to the conversation, before the rangers turned violent.

"I'm fine sir.  Really." She replied, and was irritated when her voice came out as a squeak.  Now they would think she was afraid of them.  She was afraid, but she did not want them to know about it.  What will happen if the stories were true?  What if they did kidnap young girls, and took them off into the Wild for their own amusement?   She heartily wished the rangers would just go away, and she could pretend this never happened.  Much to her dismay, the rangers did not miraculously disappear.  

"Why don't you try sitting up first, just to be sure." Strider suggested.  Mary did not reply, not trusting her voice not to squeak again.  Instead, she nodded, and struggled to sit up. Both rangers reached out to help her, and to her credit, she managed not to flinch away at their touch.  The rangers did not seem to notice her hesitation, or if they did, were too polite to make mention of it.  Inside, Mary was panicking.  Were they making sure she could survive a journey out into the Wild?  Were they going to hurt her?  No one would hear her if she started screaming, not this far from Bree.  She would be gone before anyone would notice, and no one would know where to find her.  They would probably think she had run off to one of the surrounding towns.  By the time anyone realized she was well and truly gone, it would be too late.  Why hadn't she taken up her brother's offer to do the milking chores this morning?

She successfully sat up, and Strider gently turned her head so she was looking into his eyes.  She gulped, suddenly realizing just how bright and keen his eyes were.  Was he trying to hypnotize her into obeying him?  What would happen if he succeeded?  She would never get away!  Before her panic could escalate too far, Strider nodded in satisfaction and released her.  

"You will be fine, miss.  Just be careful around the cows, you hear?" he teased, and rose.  "Come Mouse, we have much to do, and the day is wasting away."  Strider gave Mary a short and oddly courtly bow, and then Mouse repeated the gesture.  Before Mary could think up a suitable reply, both were striding away.  They hopped the fence, agile as a pair of deer, and headed down the road, away from Bree.  Mary watched them dazedly, more than a little bewildered.  Slowly, her confusion melted away and she began to grin.  Just wait until the other girls in town heard about this!  Thinking up ways to tell her story to its best advantage, she finished milking the cows quickly, then headed back toward Bree, eager to tell how she bravely survived an encounter with two of the dangerous rangers.


	2. A Night at the Prancing Pony

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, or any of his works.  All recognizable characters and locals are used with greatest respect, and returned without great harm done. 

A Night at the Prancing Pony

She doesn't look at me any more.  

Not that she ever looked at me before, not really.  She used to laugh at me, but I think that behind that laugh she really did like me.  At least, she liked me a little, and that was enough.  Now, however…

I carefully looked over the rim of my mug and across the tavern of the Prancing Pony, and watched her as she chatted with the other maids.  She was beautiful – long brown hair, strong sun-bronzed arms, and a smile that could lighten my day during the most dreary winter months.  She used to smile at me, smile at my poor little poems and notes, at my horrible spelling but honest tries… now she just thinks of _him_.  She has not stopped telling her story since she bustled into the tavern that afternoon, covered in dust from the pastures, still carrying the milk buckets.  She swore she narrowly escaped capture by two of those rangers… but something about the way she sort of smiled when she re-told her story made me think that she would not have minded too much if those rangers had stolen her away.  Especially the one she called "Mouse".  She went on at length about how apologetic and worried he had sounded until I almost thought the rangers did not really mean to cause any trouble in the first place.  After all, kidnappers rarely apologize to their victims… or so I'd imagine.

I wished I had been there that day.  I wished that instead of making boots and such like I always do from sun-up to sun-down, that I had found a reason to accompany Mary on her trip to the cow pastures that morning instead of just watching her pass by the shop.  I wanted to go with her… the boot I was re-soling could wait, it had been sitting in the shop for a good month now.  She was so beautiful that morning – looking fresh as a daisy and as cheerful as a lark.  Ahh, Mary…

A heavy body settling in next to me at the bar interrupted my thoughts.  I shifted over with a bit of irritation – couldn't this oaf see I was trying to watch the most beautiful girl in Breeland?  My irritation disappeared when I realized it is Tom Rushwater, the cooper.  Tom's ruddy, heavy-set jowls contrasted eerily with his twinkling eyes in the reddish light cast by the lanterns.  

"Ho there Billy, moping over Mary again, are you?" he chortled, low and deep.  I smiled wanly in return.  My infatuation, as he calls it, with Mary has been a long-standing joke between us.  He always laughed at my attempts at poetry, but his laugh was not as lovely as Mary's was.  

"Ho there Tom, still dreaming of ever finding a lass that can stand your ugly mug?" I returned innocently. Tom expected my reply since we always begin our conversations this way.  Tom smiled and slapped my back as Butterbur slides a massive tankard over the bar – the usual for Tom. 

"Do you know what your problem is Billy?" Tom asked conspiratorially after he took a hefty swig of his ale.  I smiled.  

"No, but I have no doubt that you're going to tell me." I answered wryly, and then swallowed some of my own ale.  It had gone flat since I came in, and I grimaced.  Flat, warm ale was never one of my favorite drinks.  I signaled Butterbur to bring me another round, since conversations with Tom tended to be long and thirsty work.

"You don't ever talk to the girl, that's your problem.  Pretty lasses like her, they want to be petted, they want attention – you sitting over here with your ale and your long stares won't win her." Tom noted sagely.  I elbowed him in the ribs in response.  I did talk to her… sometimes.  I even tried to write poetry for her.  She always paid so much attention to the rangers when one of the lads managed to convince one to recite a bit over a pint of ale, so I thought that might be the key to winning her heart.  Perhaps the poems have to be about stars or something like that – she never looked impressed by what I made.  I looked over at Mary again, who looked like she was giving another rendition of her story.  The way her hair fell over her shoulder in one straight dark plait was beautiful, as were her sparkling brown eyes.  They seemed particularly lively tonight, and I wondered what she was thinking about to make her eyes shine like that.  She probably wasn't thinking about a poor cobbler's apprentice.  

I ran a hand through my perpetually mussed hair while Tom laughed.  Perhaps he was right.  I should go over there and talk to her…  ask her…  I frowned.  

"Tom, what would I talk to her about?  She doesn't like boots… I mean, she wears them, I've seen her in boots, they're nice, no-nonsense boots, good for her family's business, but…" Tom cut me off with a wave of his meaty hand.  

"You think too much Billy, that's your problem.  You shouldn't think Billy.  You need to act.  Those rangers, now they acted and your Mary hasn't stopped talking about them for a week." He noted with that same all-knowing tone.  I glowered at him, sulking.  Must he bring those dratted rangers up?  What were rangers good for, anyway?  They don't seem to serve any purpose in society.  They come, they drink ale and sit mysteriously in the dark corners of taverns, they stalk mysteriously through the muddy streets without a word to anyone, and then they disappear again.  They're almost as bad as those folk that are moving up along the Greenway, claiming they have just as much right to the land as we do.  We didn't want any change – we're happy as we were, thank you very much.  At least, I was happy with the way things were.  If Mary wasn't so busy staring after those rangers, she might see me.  

"What do you know, Tom?  You can't even get a lass to look at you twice." I growled peevishly, hanging over my mug like a starving rabid dog over his food dish.  The effect seemed to be lost on Tom, who just grinned cheerfully back at me.  

The night continued in this fashion.  I watched Mary, Tom alternated between giving me advise on life and teasing me about my lack of prospects, I growled at Tom, and Butterbur kept serving ale.  The crowd around the bar grew rowdier and louder with each passing round.  Mary and her friends left early on, probably heading home to rest up for morning chores.  Somewhere between the sixth and tenth rounds of ale, the inebriated conversation began to revolve around the town's latest favorite topic: Rangers.  

"They're a nuisance, they are, sneaking here and there, never listenin' to anyone.  We should lock 'em out and be done with them!" a slightly slurred voice called out from the crowd around the bar. At that point, I wouldn't have recognized my own mother's voice, so I don't know who it was.

"We can't.  I try.  Every night I watch the gates, and those meddlesome rangers slip over the fences.  Or they sneak in while I talking to other travelers.  Once, a group of them hid in a wagon comin' into town.  I can't keep them out!" One of the gate wardens wails, his sobbing voice sounding very strange when matched with his bulky figure.  

"I like them.  I think they're just lonely folk, lookin' for a place to rest." A drink-emboldened voice piped up.  Silence reigned for a long moment.  Then, almost as if it were pre-arranged, the drinkers at the bar erupted in loud laughter, some slapping the back of the young man who had spoken up.

"Good joke lad!  Lonely folk… ha!" the warden howled before draining his mug.  I think I saw the young man slink off not too much later that evening.  He never did say anything else that night.  The comments from the remaining crowd grew wilder and more opinionated, and soon "ranger encounter" stories were being swapped.  Almost every single one involved a poor innocent townsperson just barely escaping the clutches of the evil and mysterious rangers.  Also, almost every story involved the teller as he one who drove off the rangers in question.  I did not contribute much to the conversation at that point – I had passed my limit of five ales some time before, and I was beginning to remember why I didn't like drinking.  Funny, how I never remembered those kinds of things when I was sober.  Also, I didn't really have a story to contribute.  I don't like rangers, but I've never had to talk with one either.  They never came to the little shop I worked in, obviously thinking themselves too good for the likes of us Breelanders.  Therefore, while I attempted to keep the room from tilting too far over, I listened to tales of rangers and their mysterious ways.  No doubt if Mary had heard half of what I heard that night, she would never go near rangers ever again.  I also swore to myself that if I ever met up with one of those rangers, I would warn them off Mary right quick.  

Eventually, Butterbur called for last drinks, and we all clamored at the bar for one last round.  By that time I couldn't stomach another ale even if I wanted to, so I stumbled out the door, waving a bleary farewell to my drinking companions.  I don't know if they replied – I was too busy making sure my feet hit the ground correctly.  I was halfway home, and making good time, I thought, when I suddenly bumped up against something in the middle of the road.  I fell back into the mud – it did not.  I forced my tired eyes to focus, and stared for a moment at a pair of knee-high, muddy, well-crafted leather boots.  Mentally I was already calculating the price of a pair of boots like that.  We never got orders for boots like the ones in front of me at the little cobbler's shop.  Then I noticed that the boots were attached to a pair of legs.  They were long legs, longer than the usual Breelander's.  My gaze traveled upward, past the sword half-hidden in the folds of a massive cloak, past the lone silver brooch pinning the cloak together, and it finally stopped at a pair of curious grey eyes.  No, the person with the grey eyes wasn't curious… what was curious was the way those eyes seemed to look right through me.

"Have a care there.  Are you lost, sir?" the apparition in front of me asked.  For some reason that I could not remember, I thought that the voice should have been less kind.  I sat up a bit straighter in the mud, and with all of the dignity I could muster, replied.

"I am not lost.  I am… here." Perhaps it wasn't the greatest rebuttal, but it served.  

"Would you care for some help in going from here to home?" the stranger asked, seemingly unwilling to leave me in the mud.  Again, for some reason that I had drowned with drink, I thought this was terribly odd.  However, there was no was to refuse the stranger, so I accepted.  After a few wrong turnings and a good amount of stumbling, I spied the lighted stoop of my little house.  I thanked the stranger profusely, for what else can one say to someone who seems determined to walk you home?  I then asked his name, so that I could buy him a drink the next time we both were at the Prancing Pony.  This seemed to give the stranger pause, and I wondered what sort of person does not know his own name.  Finally, he answered.

"You may call me Mouse." I stared at him in shock.  This was Mary's Mouse?  Before I could make good on my earlier vow, he turned and stalked away, disappearing into the night as if he were a ghost or wraith.  I called after him once I found my voice, but there was no reply.  Shaking a bit, I managed to undo the lock on my door and slip inside, firmly latching the door again once I was indoors.  Did he know what I had been thinking about him?  Was he stalking me?  Then, a happy thought occurred to me.

I had something to talk about with Mary now.


	3. Winter's Chill

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, or any of his works.  All recognizable characters and locals are used with the greatest of respect, and returned with no great harm done.

Winter's Chill

It was cold, that sort of biting cold that settles before a winter tempest.  It was that sort of cold that freezes the breath in your lungs, making it hard to do anything other than try to breathe.  Billy Rushlight, the gatekeeper for West-gate, huddled miserably in his gatehouse.  Luck of the draw brought him here tonight.  The man who was supposed to take this watch, old Tom Brambledown, had caught a bad cough.  He and the other three gatekeepers had set up a lottery to decide who had to take Tom's shifts until the grouchy old gatekeeper regained his health… something Billy was beginning to believe would not happen until spring.  After all, who would willingly go back to a job like this?  Tom was old enough to retire; he had been for quite some time now.  Billy suspected that the only reason Tom kept showing up for work was he liked interrogating strangers who came up the Greenway.  Anyway, he had won the lottery… or lost it, depending on how one looks at it.  

Billy shivered as a gust of freezing air blows through the small shack, rattling the windows in their panes.  Every summer the gatekeepers got together and insulated the gatehouses against the coming winter chill, but every year the wind found new holes in the walls.  As he shivered, he tried to warm his hands over a pitiful flame in a tiny hearth.  He had forgotten to check the woodpile this morning, and had been shocked to find it nearly empty when he started his shift this evening.  The only good thing about tonight was he was not likely to get any visitors, so there would be no need to actually go outside in cold night air.  

Several hours later, the flame has burned itself down to bare embers, which glowed faintly in the blackened hearth.  Billy snored sonorously from under the pile of blankets he had found in the footlocker under the window.  The remains of the fire snapped and crackled, and the roaring of the wind outside, which had grown stronger as the storm descended, drowned Billy's snoring.  He slept the sleep of the innocent… or at least he did, until thunderous knocking on the gate outside woke him from his sound slumber.  

"What, who, I didn't do it!" he shouted, startled awake.  Then realization of his surroundings caught up with his bewildered brain.  Someone was traveling in this weather?  He looked out his window blearily.  In the light from a nearby house, he can see swirling fat flakes of snow, coating everything in a unbroken blanket of white.  What a horrible night to be traveling.  His thoughts are broken as the pounding on the gate resumed.  

"Curse it, I'm coming, I'm coming!" he called as he reluctantly shifted out of his pile of blankets and tugged on his boots.  Whoever was out there must be mad, to be on the road tonight.  Perhaps he should leave them out there – there were enough crazies within Bree already.  Duty is duty, however, so he stamped his feet a bit to warm them up and shuffled over to the door, wrapping his cloak around him as he walked.  He shoved the door to his gatehouse open with some difficulty.  Already the swirling snow had built up a formidable snow bank against the stout wooden door.  The pounding on the gate continued unabated.  It now sounded like two people are hitting the wooden planks with all of their strength.  The impatience of some people…

Muttering and stamping he charged out into the cold and wrapped already numbed fingers around the small cover for the eyehole that was cut in the gate.  For a few desperate moments, he thought he would not be able to open the latch his fingers are so cold.  After a bit of snarled curses and fumbling he slid the door open and peered out into the night.  The world outside looked dark and empty, and for a moment, Billy wondered if the whole thing wasn't some cold-inspired auditory hallucination.

"Who's there?" he shouted haltingly, his teeth chattering from the cold.  He half-expected there to be no answer.  After all, it was a horrible night for traveling.

"I am called Strider, there are two others with me.  Open the gate, we are half frozen." a deep, rough voice called back.  Billy tried to get a glimpse of this mysterious trio, but the storm hampered his efforts.  He caught sight of a face, and a bit of cloak, but it was too dark, and too little light filtered through the small hole in the gate to make out any details.  Strider was a name he recognized – he often saw that particular ranger sitting in the corner of the Prancing Pony, mulling over a pint of ale.  Reluctantly he shoved the giant bolts back and hauled the gate open.  He still barred the way, using his body to bridge the gap between the open gate and the town wall.

"Whaterya up to, Longshanks?  Bringing more of your slinking kind into Bree?  You're up to no good, I'd warrant." he drawled, trying to present a brave front to these three wild men.  The light from the house illuminated the scene before him.  Two of the rangers were supporting a third between them.  All three looked road-weary, with snow covering their cloaks and heads and soaking into their clothes.  All three wore the customary silver rayed star on their cloaks that he had noted on other rangers he had seen.  Their cloaks flapped limply in the wind of the storm, as did their unruly hair.  The two rangers on either end looked well enough, simply tired from whatever journey they had undertaken.  The third man looked horrible – pale and shivering, he seemed much younger than his two companions did.  Billy scrutinized them all carefully and thoroughly.  The other hale ranger he recognizes vaguely – Mouse, that ranger Thistlewood's daughter had been going on about every time he saw her.  The young man being held up by his fellows he does not recognize at all.  Mouse shifted in annoyance, but Strider made no move.  

"My business is my own, gatekeeper, and right now it has more to do with warm beds than causing you any trouble." Strider replied evenly, unruffled by Billy's acerbic comment. Billy leaned against the wall, the cold forgotten in this chance to bait these rangers.  After all, if they are going to rouse him from his sleep, he should get to have a little fun, right?  He thought back to the nights he spent at the inn, talking with other gatekeepers, and tried to remember the taunts the other keepers used on these strange folk.

"What's the matter, Longshanks?  The hedgerow not good enough for you tonight?  Gonna pretend to be civilized folk?" he taunted through his shivering.  While Strider did not react to this comment either, Mouse seemed to have quite enough.  

"Can't you see this man is ill and weary?  Now move aside, and let us proceed!" he cried furiously.  It looked as though the ranger might fly at Billy, but was restrained both by his need to support his friend, and by Strider's hand on his arm.  Billy drew back anyway at the threat evident in Mouse's eyes.  

"How do I know you're not tryin' to fool me?  He could be just fine!" Billy retorted, regaining his courage when he saw that Strider was not going to allow his more fiery-tempered companion to harm him.  Then, as if to prove Billy wrong, the young ranger convulsed in a series of deep rasping coughs.  His companions left off trying to get past Billy and concentrated on the lad, trying to ease his breathing.  

"Deep breaths, _gwador_, relax…" Mouse soothed quietly, his large hand rubbing the younger ranger's back.  Strider knelt in the snow before the pair, fishing a water skin out from under his cloak and forcing the young man to drink in between bouts of coughing.

Billy watched in stunned silence.  Maybe the lad really was sick.  He looked young, too young to be out of doors on a night like this.  Slowly the younger ranger stopped coughing and his companions pulled him up to an upright position.  The light caught the boy's eyes – they looked glassy and feverish.  Still… rangers were crafty folk.  He had to be careful.  

"Don't you have any other place you could take him?  We don't want your disease in this town." he groused, shifting uneasily.  "Why don't you go disappear to whatever hole you usually go to?" his peevish complaint finally set Strider off.  Making sure Mouse had a firm grasp on their weakened companion; he stepped closer to Billy, seeming to tower over the gatekeeper suddenly.  In his normally docile grey eyes flickered a fire that made Billy cower in fear.  The sudden chill that overtook Billy had absolutely nothing to do with the storm.  The ranger suddenly seemed lordly, though Billy's stunned mind refused to accept that notion.  A lordly ranger – that could never happen!  Rangers were vagabonds, wild and shiftless men who wandered, up to no good and contributing nothing to their fellow man.  That fact was hard to remember now that Strider was glaring at him with a rage that made Billy's heart quail.  

"This man is ill, and needs to get out of this storm.  You will let us by, understand?" he growled.  Suddenly Billy realized just how well armed Strider and his companions were, and swallowed heavily.  Perhaps baiting them was not the best idea.  He nodded, backing away from the gate.  There was something about the way Strider was carrying himself, perhaps it was the fire in his eyes… whatever it was, there was no way he would be able to deny the ranger's command.  Strider threw his weight against the gate, shoving it wide open to allow his companions access.  Billy cannot find it within himself to protest, and watches dumbly as Mouse led the staggering ranger into Bree.  Mouse muttered something to the youngster, something in a language unfamiliar to Billy's ears, but sweet and lyrical all the same.  Billy was about to ask what it was the ranger said, but then Mouse turned to give the gatekeeper a furious glare, and Billy decided that he should not push his luck.  He would ask later, when the rangers were in a more affable mood.  Strider came around to slip an arm under the weakened ranger's free shoulder, and the trio shuffled off into the darkness without another word, heading towards the warmth of the inn.  


End file.
